For pure nausea, there’s a rudimentary horror masquerading as a gross-out comedy marketed for morons called I Love You, Man. Another brain-dead freak show about speed-dialing California twitters, it stars the talented Paul Rudd, who is making a career out of trashing both his talent and reputation in one rotting mackerel after another and laughing all the way to the bank. He is Peter, a real estate agent who realizes, on the verge of his wedding to Zooey ( Rashida Jones), that he has never achieved enough maturity in life to have a best friend, much less a best man. Peter has a filthy-mouthed father who says things like “He’s got a bush like a porcupine and wears a Speedo full of Brillo.” His office mate spends all of his time watching women having orgasms on the office computers. And his gay brother gives him the kind of advice you only get from old reruns of Queer as Folk: mandates literally translated to mean man dates. So Peter auditions prospective best men for his wedding, settling on a meathead named Sydney Fife (Jason Segel). Sydney has a mangy dog called Anwar Sadat that litters the sidewalks (lots of close-ups of people interfacing with dog poop in more ways than one) and lives in a condemned dump on the beach filled with junk bought on e-Bay. While his fiancé is understandably weirded out by this repulsive fruitcake, Peter gets so caught up in the life style of electric guitars and 6-foot subs that he falls in love with Sydney instead. The movie was written and directed by John Hamburg, the hack who created Meet the Fockers, and its dialogue consists almost exclusively of gibberish slang that exists only in the minds of trolls: “We’re just chillaxing”; “Totes Mcgoats”; “No lags between the vags.” The guys call each other “McGeetch” and “Dude von Dudenstein.” A big date is piling on the sofa watching a box of season-two Lost DVDs. Mr. Segel, the star of such timeless classics as Forgetting Sarah Marshall and the TV show Freaks and Geeks, specializes in playing obnoxious slackers with lips caked in dried oatmeal who litter while they twitter. But Mr. Rudd as an obsessive-compulsive git with attention-deficit disorder in a movie this bad is a waste of double the talent. The Peter Pan syndrome is overdone, but never with this much pointless vulgarity. These gits remind me of those ’60s fools who drove Camaros, smoked pot and ate at Dolores’ Drive-In. If they exist today, they must live in cardboard boxes under the Santa Monica Freeway.